It's Not Your Fault
by hannah-jennifer
Summary: He held on a little tighter, trying not to let the tears fall. Everything was silent except for his one final whimper, "Come back."


**Okay, it is currently after 11pm, and I am not tired at all. My mind is racing and I cannot get this thought and plot for a story all day. I'm not leaving until around 5 tomorrow night, so maybe I'll update my other story. Who knows?**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue**

**RBRBRBRBRB**

The door slammed open, kicked in, and banged against the wall. He rushed in, feet thudding against the hardwood floor as he ran over to the body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Her body was shivering, a sign of shock. Her eyes were wide and scared, eyes darting all around the room until they landed on him. Her brown orbs weren't focused, and they were glazed over in tears. Her skin was pale, as opposed to its natural tan glow, and her face red and blotchy.

But it was nothing compared to the red that surrounded her on the floor. His shoes stuck to the tacky liquid as he knelt over her shaking form. His hands applied pressure on the wounds that marred her flesh. Her trembling hands reached up and clenched on his forearms, squeezing every time he put more pressure on the stab wounds.

The wounds that were inflicted by the cabbie. The cabbie that stabbed her in the abdomen and twisted it in her gut, pulled it out and shoved it back in. The cabbie that currently had her cell phone in his pocket and was being tracked by the other coppers. The cabbie that left the love of his life to die in his living room.

He removed his right hand from her stomach and grasped her jaw. His last two fingers were placed over her pulse point, and he was secretly hoping it would be strong and beating, much like it had a few nights ago. But it wasn't. In fact, he probably would've missed it if she wasn't actually looking at him.

He pulled back to look in her eyes. The usually bright brown and gold flecks had dulled to a dark tan and brown flecks. Her cheeks that would flush with embarrassment when he poked fun using innuendo and that held a natural blush and reflected the moonlight in the wee hours of the morning. They weren't pink and blushing, instead they were dull and tear stained.

Her lips, that he could spend hours kissing, were dry and cracked, blood seeping through the torn skin. They weren't red because of the lipstick she wore when she was a rookie, but stained with the very substance that was running through her veins and having her pulse weaken.

He took his left hand and cradled the back of her head, making sure she could breathe, and wondered where the hell the bus was. A low, guttural groan came from her as she tried to move to get a better look at him. He shushed her, promising that he wouldn't leave her side and that she was going to be okay.

Her wide eyes peered back up at him, stopping him in his tracks. Her dilated pupils began to shrink as her eyes became glossier and more unfocused, staring off into the distance. It took all of his strength not to shake her awake, and used a more gentle approach.

"McNally," he begged, tilting her chin up a bit. "Andy, come on. Stay with me, just keep looking at me. You're going to be fine, come on, Andy." He was well aware that she probably couldn't hear him, but his pep talk was more for himself than the dying girl. "Andy," he exclaimed a little more forcefully.

Her head began to fall to the side, a drop of blood falling out of the side of her mouth. Her body became slack and her eyes began to drop shut. He pushed his fingers harder into her neck, trying to make it as if her pulse was stronger.

It was gone.

He placed his lips over the still skin as he tried to remember when there was a strong heartbeat felt under his mouth. When he was alone with her and he wanted to know how he made her felt, he would tuck his nose into her hair and lips to her pulse point. A smug grin would pull at his lips when he felt it thundering and loud.

But the silent beating was nowhere to be found along the column of her neck, nor was it found under his ribcage. He held her a little tighter, trying not to let the tears fall. Everything was silent except his one final whimper,

"Come back."

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His eyes snapped open as he was jerked awake. He became vaguely aware of the fact his skin was wet and freezing, a sweat had consumed him during his sleep. His heartbeat was fast and hard, unlike the one that he tried to look for with Andy. His breathing was ragged and shallow, and his eyes tried to focus to take in his surroundings.

The light from the clock caught his attention, first; 2:47. His sheets were thrown around, messy. His mattress was slanted on the frame, the room seemed as if it were spinning. The spot next to him that was usually filled by a woman was empty.

_Andy_.

He leaped off the bed, running through his house, yelling for her. Over and over as he checked each room. It couldn't be real. It wasn't her who had been killed. She was alive, and breathing. She wasn't stabbed.

But where was she.

A sickening wave of relief crashed over him as he remembered that she was at her apartment. Safe and sound. But not with him. And at the moment, that was where she was supposed to be.

So he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and drove as quickly as legally allowed to get to her apartment. He used the spare key she had given him after they left the hospital; _In case you ever want to talk._ He darted up the stairs to her floor, skipping two at a time. He made it to her door, and began slamming his fist on it. He could hear people stirring in their apartments, but he was waiting for her to answer to door.

It was when her loft had remained silent that he remembered the key in his hand. A splash of embarrassment hit him before he jabbed the key in the locked and twisted; much like the knife to Jerry's gut.

Her door burst open with unbridled energy he wasn't aware he was emitting. He glanced around her apartment, as if to make sure she wasn't attacked again. That's when his eyes landed upon her. Sleep shorts, tank top, hair array. He would've found the scene quite attractive; if it weren't for his paranoia and her raised gun.

A moment of tense energy passed, and then she calmed down, realized it was just him, and lowered her weapon. Guilt washed over her features, and he knew that his words had made her blame herself. He tried to walk over to her, but his feet were rooted to the spot. _She was okay. She was alive_.

She, instead, had made the journey over to him and she pressed her palm to his cheek. His face was as white as a ghost and he was clammy. His eyes were wide with fear, cheeks stained with tears.

"Sam," she called, finally breaking the silence. His eyes finally met hers, and she thought she would die right there. The hurt and worry and sorrow that filled them would've torn him apart in a matter of seconds. The fact that he kept it all bottled up at last caught up to him.

She wrapped his arms around him in silence, his slinking around her waist. They held each other as tightly as they could, without suffocating. They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but may have only been minutes.

She finally broke apart, reaching for his hand, and pulled him to her room. She couldn't send him home. After all, at a time like that, they really needed each other.

"Andy," he admitted, "It's not your fault. I don't blame you."

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**Sadly, that actually took me 45 minutes to write. I am now tired and the dogs kept distracting me. Mostly the cat though. He was just being so cute! Henry can't help it, it's no one's fault he is ridiculously handsome.**

**Anyways, I'm going to leave it as a one-shot because this cannot be made into a multi-chapter fic (at least not by me). And I felt that it would be mean to start a new story and then leave the next day without updating it.**

**Also, enjoy the last 10 minutes of your birthday, Ben Bass(aka the hottest guy, ever).**


End file.
